


A Distant Warmth

by 64K



Series: Justice or Mercy (Clive gen oneshots) [3]
Category: Layton Kyouju Series | Professor Layton Series
Genre: Baby Alfendi, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Family, Flora is talked about but isn't present, Friendship, Gen, Layton is trying, Mental Health Issues, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Post-Unwound Future
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-07
Updated: 2020-06-07
Packaged: 2021-03-03 20:02:50
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,445
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24591265
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/64K/pseuds/64K
Summary: Alfendi is a welcome new addition to the Layton family, but even the professor, in his infinite patience, has difficulty coping with the needs of a new baby. Clive tries to be helpful.
Relationships: Clive & Hershel Layton
Series: Justice or Mercy (Clive gen oneshots) [3]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1749358
Comments: 9
Kudos: 18





	A Distant Warmth

"Would you like to hold the baby?"

This is the third time today that Clive's been asked that question. "No thank you, professor," he replies with a smile, for the third time, and returns his gaze to his journal.

This little tome is one of his lifelines. When he'd been in the hospital, overwhelmed with his (deserved) guilt, unable to comprehend how to atone for his crimes, they'd given him this. _Do something helpful each day,_ they'd said. _Even if it's something small. Write it down. Then you can look back, and remember, and see that you are doing something good, that you're making an effort, even if it's only for one person._

Blank pages stare up at him, empty except for the dates that he's prewritten in the upper corners, in hopes of forcing himself to write, to actually _do_ something helpful.

 _Has_ he done any good? Not for days. All that he's done is sit on the professor's couch, watching _him_ work, not being helpful in the least—

—Alfendi lets out a wail.

Clive jerks his head up, meeting the professor's gaze. Hershel looks towards him with apologetic eyes, but he's unable to hide the tiredness in his face. He stoops to pick up Alfendi from the blanket on the ground where he'd attempted to put him.

Clive observes the circles under the professor's eyes, the stacks of paperwork on his desk, the crying infant on the ground. Clive is certain that he's not capable of taking good care of Alfendi, not in the least. The little thing will fall apart if he touches him, or he'll drop him and break his neck, or… or any manner of disasters _could_ happen, no matter how unlikely those scenarios may be. And yet, the professor looks so tired...

"Do you… _want_ me to hold him?" he asks hesitantly.

The professor blinks, holding Alfendi suspended in midair, then smiles, just as hesitantly. "If you want to, Clive."

"If it's of help to you, I want to," says Clive, standing, letting his journal fall aside onto the couch cushions. The professor awkwardly hands Alfendi to Clive. Clive fumbles the pass, nearly dropping the squirming little devil; his clumsy hands are sure to crush the little thing's bones to dust.

"I'm going to break him," he says, as deadpan as possible (with every tremor in his voice, there is an equal tremor in his hands).

"I'm not as gentle as you are," the professor says. Relief is evident in his voice as he watches Clive hold Alfendi against his shoulder. "If you could break him, I'd have already broken him by now."

The thought of kind, quiet Professor Layton being clumsier with Alfendi than _Clive_ is absurd. The idea is far funnier to Clive than it should be, and he is forced to choke back a snicker—if he lets it escape, a torrent of uncontrollable laughter will spoil all chances of Alfendi _ever_ falling asleep. "I beg to differ, professor," he says, smiling through the pain of Alfendi's little fist pulling his hair. "You forget how much destruction I'm capable of."

"That was with a machine, Clive," the professor says evenly, calmly—it's eerie how he can sense just when Clive is about to spiral, whether upwards or downwards. "Your hands aren't capable of that sort of violence."

His words are kind, but patently false. Arguing the point will only hurt the professor, however, so Clive merely hums in response, feeling, with relief, the potential outburst of laughter fading away. He shifts Alfendi closer against his shoulder, trying to find a balance between squeezing the baby too tightly and letting him slip from his arms altogether.

The professor looks up from his paperwork, smiling as Clive struggles. "You're doing quite well with him."

"Oh? How miraculous." Clive laughs carelessly, remaining proudly stoic as Alfendi continues his attempt to rip Clive's hair out. "Even if I wasn't a madman, there's no reason why I should be good with children. I've had no experience with them whatsoever."

"I wouldn't say that." The professor's pen moves slowly, steadily writing notes in the margins of his students' papers. "You did quite well with Luke, as I recall."

Clive snorts. What he did with Luke in the past was unforgivable; not something to be admired in the least. "Ah, yes. Stealing his identity, finding out every little detail of his personal life. What a wonderful way to befriend a child."

"I meant the way you spoke to him. You respected his intelligence, and answered his questions whenever he asked in a way that he could understand." The professor smiles. "In that sense, you really did meet my expectations for what the Future Luke should be."

"Hm," is all that Clive can say. He rocks back and forth on his heels, trying to combat his loss of words with movement. Alfendi seems to like the motion; his fist loosens around the handful of Clive's hair. The feeling of Alfendi relaxing in Clive's arms, of his forehead falling into Clive's shoulder, is astounding; Clive has never been the one to hold a child, to have their safety depend on him; he's only ever been the one that was held (and never enough). Clive freezes. Alfendi's fist tightens. Clive clears his throat. "Well," he says hoarsely, beginning to rock once again. "All I can say is that you're better than I am. With children, I mean."

"What makes you say that?"

It's a thousand things, really. The way that the professor had taken Flora and Alfendi into his home in their hours of need. The way that he had taught, watched over, and been a friend to Luke for years, in a way that Clive had envied endlessly. But, above all—

"I suppose I'm referring to what you did for me, all those years ago," he says softly. That moment had been burned into his memory for all time. It had been a beacon of hope to him even in his darkest moments.

The professor's pen stops. He chuckles humourlessly. "The day of the explosion? My boy, I'm so sorry _that_ is what's clouded your perception of me for all of these years. That moment was far from my finest hour."

Clive blinks. "You saved my life."

"I shook you by the shoulders, and I shouted in your face." Hershel sighs, shaking his head. "I let my emotions get the better of me. That was no way to treat a grieving child."

"You were… hurting as much as I was," murmurs Clive uncertainly. Alfendi whimpers, and Clive pats his back awkwardly. Perhaps that moment _is_ an odd one to fixate upon. Clive remembers it well; he could never forget it. The smell of burnt drywall and melted metal. The screams and sobs, coming from others, and from himself. The feeling of struggling, trying to escape from the professor's grip, and then, in despair, giving in, burying his face in the professor's overcoat, sobbing into that warm, solid presence. The feeling of being warm, and safe, while being surrounded by chaos and devastation.

The feeling of wanting to die, but not being allowed to.

He'd held onto that memory, those feelings, even at times where he couldn't feel _anything,_ or in the awful moments where he felt everything all at once. During the times when he wanted to give up on living, he remembered that someone, even if for only a moment, had wanted him to live.

It was almost hurtful, in an odd way, that the professor regretted giving him those memories.

"I still appreciate it," he says, holding Alfendi a little too tightly. "I would have died that day, if it weren't for you."

It's the professor's turn, this time, to merely hum, and to turn away from Clive, absently marking up the sheets of paper. "I had to do something," he says, after a long pause. "Although I let my emotions get the better of me. That's how it often seems to be for me; I see somebody in need of help, and I can't leave them in need, and yet I'm unable to help them adequately." He glances towards the child in Clive's arms. "Take Alfendi, for example. I felt that he needed me, but I've never had any experience with babies. I'm already in over my head."

It makes Clive feel odd, and almost uncomfortable, to hear the professor express such doubts in his abilities. The professor is ordinarily so calm, so logical. He's the one who talks sense into _Clive,_ not the other way around. And yet, Clive can't leave the professor alone in this dark place; if he wants to emulate the professor, he can't leave someone in need without help, no matter how inadequately he's prepared to offer that help. He forces a smile. "That's your sleep deprivation talking, professor. It's plain to see that Alfendi's doing well. He has everything he needs."

"I don't give him enough affection, though." The professor smiles wryly. "Flora knows that; you've seen how relentlessly she spoils him. It's to make up for how distant I am." He stares through the papers on his desk. "I was cold to you in the past, and I continue to be cold today."

"You're not."

Hershel blinks, and so does Clive, startled by his own outburst, and yet, he continues. "That memory… that moment, when you saved me for the first time. It's one of the warmest memories that I have. You weren't cold. You cared. You wouldn't let me die."

There's an odd look in the professor's eyes. "Of course I wouldn't. A true gentleman—"

"—puts others before himself." It's terribly ungentlemanly of Clive to interrupt Hershel, and he's sure that, if the professor were in a brighter mood, he'd tell him so. But the professor doesn't react, and so, after watching his expression carefully, Clive continues. "That's what you did. That's what you always do. And to me, that's enough. You're always _there,_ when I need you the most. And it doesn't matter if you're not constantly cooing baby talk into Alfendi's face. You're there when he needs you."

The professor chuckles, and Clive can't help but narrow his eyes at the insincerity of the sound. "You're very kind, Clive," he says lightly, his hand returning to its mindless scrawling across the pages. "But you don't need to pretend. You know that simply 'being there' isn't enough. I often don't even do _that_ for Flora."

Clive can't deny that. The professor is quiet; more so than an ordinary introvert. He likes to hide away, to retreat into himself; offering words of comfort one moment, and vanishing the next, finding refuge in his puzzles and in his old fossils. Clive can understand that. While he'd been something of an outgoing child, in his old life with his parents, the explosion at the institute had transformed him into a hermit who refused to leave his room, who had, for those first few years, shunned social interaction outside of the Dove family, until he'd forced himself to get that reporting job, realizing the importance of making connections to further his quest for revenge. He wonders if the professor had been affected by that day in the same way that he had been, if he also pushes others away to keep from being hurt further.

Flora, though… she's different. She _can't_ be alone, or else that drives _her_ mad. She clings to what she has with all her might, until it's ripped from her by force. And, it's impossible to know at this stage, but, from the way that Alfendi holds so tightly to him now, Clive feels that Alfendi may grow up to follow in his sister's footsteps. They don't want to be left alone, or ignored.

"I can't… speak for Flora," starts Clive, carefully. "But I know that she does love you. She just doesn't want to be left alone, or to be abandoned, or to lose you. And neither does Alfendi. And… neither do I."

The professor's pencil stops. His face is unreadable, as though he wants to say something, but doesn't have the words. Clive continues. "You were present for me when I needed you, when they locked me up, and you still are. You didn't need to talk. You just listened, and you were there. If you keep doing the same for them; if you don't push us away…you really don't need to change anything else." He chuckles, giving Alfendi a little squeeze of a hug, despite himself. "Well, at least, that's all _I_ really want in a father."

He stops suddenly, his rocking coming to a sudden halt. He… hadn't quite meant to phrase his words quite so candidly. "I mean," he begins awkwardly, but stops again as he sees a small, but warm smile light up the professor's face.

"Why, Clive. That's very kind of you." The professor sets down his pencil, pushing it off to the side of the desk, and closes the file folder, rising from his seat. "I'm honoured that you think of me so highly, even when my… parental talents are far from developed."

If the professor appreciates what he said that much, Clive can't backtrack now. "I'm only speaking the truth, professor," he says confidently—or, rather, he tries to get that tone across. In reality, the words come out far more loudly and abruptly than he intended. Alfendi's hand whacks Clive in the face.

Lost in embarrassment (and in trying to keep from scowling at Alfendi), Clive doesn't anticipate the professor's quiet chuckle, or the small pat on his shoulder as the professor passes him by. "Nonetheless, thank you, my boy," the professor says, opening the curtains. Light streams through the window, the dust in the air sparkling as the beams of light hit them. He turns back towards Clive, his smile still tired, with a hollowness to it, but never faltering. "I'll do my best to live up to that lofty truth of yours; for Alfendi and Flora's sakes, and for your sake as well."

Alfendi's head comes to rest against Clive's shoulder, his breathing slow and even. He's asleep; Clive managed to get him to rest without Alfendi crumbling into dust, or spontaneously combusting. And, better still, the professor is smiling again, as he should be. Even if he hadn't been able to write anything in his journal earlier today, Clive's still accomplished something helpful, something worthwhile, something to write down later, when he has time. A warm feeling fills Clive's body, and slowly, he smiles too, first down, at Alfendi, then upwards, at the professor. "I don't doubt it, professor."

**Author's Note:**

> I often see a lot of complaints about how Layton isn't a good dad to Flora or his other kids. While I agree with a lot of the complaints, I often think about the people that Hershel's lost in the past: Randall, and Claire, and even earlier, his brother and biological parents, all in awful, traumatic ways. While I think he should make a greater effort to be there for Flora, I understand why he'd want to distance himself in order to avoid more hurt. I think that he has a lot of common ground with Clive in this aspect, and it seemed like a good opportunity for some conversations about that subject between them.
> 
> Also, just watch me make Layton talk about what "A true gentleman" does in every fic.
> 
> Thank you so much for reading!


End file.
